


Friction

by Siria



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:32:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: When Bucky leans over and cups Sam's cock through his sweatpants, it's all Sam can do not to choke on his own spit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sheafrotherdon for reading over this for me!

When Bucky leans over and cups Sam's cock through his sweatpants, it's all Sam can do not to choke on his own spit. They're alone on the veranda, hidden from the view of any other early risers in the palace complex by the vines and flowers that twine around the veranda's pillars. Sam thinks _wait_ and _really_? but stays silent, lets his legs fall open a little. He's not hard, but he could be, especially with the way Bucky's looking at him. Bucky's forehead is creased in concentration, and Sam can't speak. 

Maybe that's okay, though. Doesn't seem like Bucky wants to talk overly much, not with the way he shifts again so that they're kissing. His mouth is slow and tender against Sam's; his hand is the same measured weight against Sam's cock. Maybe it's just as well, because the only things Sam can think to say would probably ruin this, and Bucky's kissing him like he's curious: like he saw a possibility and for once thought maybe he could have it. 

Bucky doesn't change position, doesn't pick up the tempo, but Sam feels himself getting hard anyway. It's like his whole body is suspended between Bucky's mouth, his hand. Doesn't feel as weird as it probably should. The angle's awkward but Sam reaches over to run a hand down Bucky's flank, to cup his ribs, to palm his hip. Bucky shivers, neither pushing into Sam's touch or pulling away. Here the two of them are, Sam thinks, keeping one another at arm's length and hoping for one another, all at once. 

When the kiss finally ends, Sam pulls back enough to see that Bucky's cheeks are flushed. He'd buzzed his hair short when he came out of cryo. New start or just frustration with the longer hair, Sam doesn't know. He does know that he likes the bristly feel of it against the palm of his hand; likes the way Bucky's mouth falls open a little more as he lowers his head to Sam's touch. 

Sam thinks he should ask: what are we doing here? Why now, with the breakfast things abandoned on the small table next to us and morning birdsong in the air? Why do you keep looking at me like that? He should ask, but then Bucky pushes his hand under the waistband of his sweats, wraps his fingers around Sam's cock, and words don't seem the most important thing any more. 

Sam hisses at the contact, lifts his ass up off the chair so he can tug his sweatpants down around his thighs and give Bucky room to work. That look of concentration on Bucky's face is even fiercer now as he works Sam's cock with his long fingers, rubs his thumb over the leaking head. Bucky's hand is dry, but fuck if the friction doesn't make it better—a hint of discomfort to war with the surreal nature of it all. He plants the other hand, the new one, so that Sam can't work his hips, can't push himself into Bucky's grip, just has to sit there and let Bucky work at his pace and gasp and hello, look at all the things Sam's learning about himself today. 

He's so hard it hurts, but none of this is enough to make him come: just enough to leave him riding the updraft for as long as Bucky wants to keep him there. Sam shakes, and he moans, and can't stop staring at how Bucky's hand looks, working his cock.

When Bucky lets go, Sam makes a noise that's embarrassing—pleading, part relief and mostly disappointment—but he's not stopping. Bucky pushes the breakfast table to one side, tea things and bowls rattling, so that he can climb onto Sam's lap. He's bracing himself so that they're barely touching, but anticipation has Sam's cock twitching against his belly regardless. 

"Pull your shirt up," Bucky says. It's the first thing he's said all day; his voice is low and hoarse and Sam wants him. He does as Bucky says, rucking his shirt—already damp—up around his armpits. Bucky presses his hands to the flat planes of Sam's stomach, and that pressure, that warmth, has Sam leaning forward to kiss Bucky again. 

Bucky breaks the kiss and his mouth is open and soft and wet, and this time when he starts to jerk Sam off, Bucky is the one to moan. Sam's hips stutter and Bucky's hand is working him smoothly now and he can't quite catch his breath. What would someone see, if they walked around the corner right now: Sam exposed from throat to thigh, Bucky dark and solid on top of him, and Sam just wanting to give it all up. 

"I'm close," Sam says, voice cracking. He can feel the muscles in his belly start to tense, braces himself against the first promises of pleasure. He wants to close his eyes; he wants to keep them open; he wants to revel in the look he's put on Bucky's face. 

"Next time," Bucky says, very quiet and very serious, "I'm gonna suck you so good, Sam," and Sam comes on a stuttered gasp. He shoots all over his stomach, over Bucky's fingers, and he slumps down in the chair, panting for breath. The fact that Bucky's rubbing the mess into Sam's skin isn't helping. He thinks he could go again if he had a moment, but then Bucky is standing. He touches Sam only to pull his t-shirt back down, tug his sweatpants back up. As far as Sam can tell, looking at the crotch of Bucky's jeans, he's not hard at all. Bucky doesn't particularly look like he was hoping for anything else. 

"Christ," Sam says, letting his head fall back against his chair, looking up at where the clear blue Wakandan sky is visible through the lush green foliage. He's hoping for an omen; he doesn't get one. "Okay, fine," he tells the uncaring sky, because this is what his dumb ass gets for following Steve Rogers in the first place. You go in, you've got to go all in. 

He stands, wrinkling his nose at the way his sweatpants are sticking to him, and then before Bucky can get away, wraps him up in a hug. Bucky twitches in his arms and then goes very still—a waiting kind of stillness, Sam realises, an expectant kind. The way you might learn how to be still because anything else brings pain. "It doesn't just have to be _for me_ ," Sam says, and the sound Bucky makes at that—well, Sam leans in. He holds on tight.


End file.
